Alan Brunton

  
For Alan
 

Poets leave like trees, falls of poems,
            poets sit in the branches singing

The falls, the salmon landing on the top rock,
            the forebears waiting, only the sound
                                   of the falls.

So much light to catch
            the falling leaves, to light those
                       that kiss the earth and tread.

Footsteps of poets leaving, the shuffling
            cloak, the hooked cane tugging
                       poets off the stage, but the voice

The miracle of the voice remains.

Robert Sullivan

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Last updated 06 December, 2002